Darkest Hour (19 page)

“Nice people,” Keith said.

“Very nice profits. Ask Brad Merton’s ex-wife. She wouldn’t know the details, of course. It’s always risky to investigate the source of profits too closely, especially in wartime. Sophisticated people know that and don’t peek.”

“And you think Monterey peeked,” Keith said.

“Once too often. What does Leem think?”

“I told you; he’s scared. I’ve got a hunch he has something on tape that he’s not talking about—otherwise why the elaborate scheme to involve you? I said blackmail, didn’t I? Well, it’s possible he was trying to blackmail the use of your brains. The recorder machine was set up in Eve’s room and running. She could have been asleep and it would still record if set up beforehand, and I don’t believe Leem would have left anything mechanical in that woman’s hands. He may have enough to make sense of this notebook.”

“Where is he?”

“In my apartment in Beverly Hills shacked up with a bottle of light and a bottle of dark Jamaican. Don’t worry, he’s too scared to leave.”

“Why don’t we go to see him?”

Jack Keith had finished drinking his coffee. He turned aside to deposit the empty cup on the top of Simon’s filing cabinet and stood facing the windows. The house sat so far back from the road that drapes were rarely drawn. Keith watched as a pair of headlamps topped by a flashing red beam proceeded up the driveway.

“I’m afraid we don’t go to see him now because the law is here,” he said.

It was too soon. Simon started to bury the notebook in the files and changed his mind. He handed it to Hannah. “Take care of this,” he said. “It’s leverage.”

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

“Max Berlin is too smart to do his own killing. Even if we find out who told him Monterey had gone to La Verde, and even if we nail the actual killer of Eve Necchi and of Monterey and Goddard, we won’t have Berlin. Whatever happens during the next few minutes, keep that notebook out of sight. I’m not playing Santa Claus for Duane Thompson.”

Chester was gone; Simon answered the doorbell when it chimed. The Marina Beach police car was parked beside Keith’s Cadillac. The motor was off and the red signal beam had stopped turning. Lieutenant Franzen stood in the doorway swabbing his tortoise-rimmed glasses with a white Kleenex. He squinted at Simon and grinned.

“Getting foggy,” he said. “I need defrosters on these things. May I come in?”

The question was a formality; he was already in the house. He placed the glasses carefully on the bridge of his nose and stopped grinning. He took two pieces of cardboard from his coat pocket and handed them to Simon. They were registration cards from the Balboa Hotel in San Diego. One was filled out by Simon Drake, the other by Eve Potter.

“Eve Potter’s maiden name is Necchi,” he said.

“I know that,” Simon answered.

“I’ll bet you do! Drake, what the hell are you trying to do to me? I made you a perfectly above-board offer of cooperation, but I can’t keep evidence like this from Thompson. It could cost me my job. You were registered in the Balboa at the same time as the woman who was killed in Motel Six. What’s more, you drank with her at the hotel bar—”

“She drank with me,” Simon corrected. “She even paid for the drinks. I’m sure that thespian bartender told you about that. It has that quaint touch.”

“Was that the first time you saw Eve Potter?”

“Yes. It wasn’t the last. She came up to my room later and tried to pick my pockets. I gave her back the money she spent on my drinks and threw her out. In the morning the desk clerk told me that she checked out in the middle of the night. I must have scared her.”

“How did your unlisted telephone number get on the cover of the telephone book in the booth at Gusik’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you talk in your sleep.”

Simon’s hand slid into his coat pocket. The pocket was lumpy. He still carried the gun Keith had given him in the car. “I told you that I kicked Eve Potter out of my room,” he said. “That was the last time I saw her.” He could have explained that it was the last time he saw her alive, but there was no reason to give Franzen everything for free.

Franzen didn’t bat a bespectacled eye. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “Suppose you tell me everything you did and everyplace you went the night Eve Potter was killed.”

“I stayed home,” Simon said. “I put in a long distance call to my fiancée, Wanda Call, in New York City. You can check that out with the telephone company.”

“I will,” Franzen said. “What else did you do?”

“I had lobster thermidor with Miss Lee. Afterward we played poker. She beat me badly. She always beats me.”

Franzen glanced toward Hannah. The notebook was safely out of sight. She nodded vigorous agreement. “Simon is telling the truth. He was here with me all night.”

“How long did you play poker?”

“We never notice the time,” Hannah said. “I have difficulty sleeping. We played until it began to get light.”

Up to that point Franzen was buying every word. Hannah had an authority in her voice that left no room for doubt. But when she stated that they had played poker until it began to get light the whole show bombed out. Simon opened his mouth to stop her. It was too late. Franzen was licking the canary feathers from his lips.

“Loyalty, Miss Lee,” he said, “is a splendid quality, but I’m afraid you’re wrong about that. I have the statement of a night waitress at Denny’s restaurant on the highway that Simon Drake, and she knows Drake by sight, stopped in a few minutes before 3
A.M
. on that night and ordered a rare steak to go. He told her that he had to bribe a dog. It must be the one that chased me up the driveway a few minutes ago. So, you see, Drake wasn’t at home all night and he was near the scene of the murder at about the same time the meat wagon was cleaning up the debris…. Drake, I’m going to have to ask you to come down to headquarters with me and see if you can clear up this confusion. Thompson is unhappy. Sergeant Potter was very definitely in his quarters at El Toro the night his ex-wife died and there are six eyewitnesses to make his story stick.”

“Let me talk to Thompson on the telephone,” Simon said.

“You can’t do that. He’s gone to a convention in Fresno. He won’t be back for two days.”

“And you expect me to sit in a cell at the police station until he gets back?” Franzen might enjoy that. He wasn’t vindictive, but his feelings were hurt. He’d tried to play ball and caught Simon lying to him. The lie put him in a delicate spot. Simon understood the situation but he couldn’t spare two days just at the present. His fingers closed over the butt of the gun and pulled it from his pocket.

He heard Hannah gasp. “Simon—a gun! I didn’t know you were a pacifist.”

Lieutenant Franzen wasn’t impressed either. “Put that damned thing down,” he said, “before you shoot your toes off.”

But Simon didn’t shoot. He brought up his arm and smashed the gun down across the side of Franzen’s head. It wasn’t a hard blow; it was meant to stun and throw him off guard. Franzen staggered back and Simon rushed for the door. Once outside, he dodged Rover, ducked behind the police car and ran to Keith’s Cadillac. The keys weren’t in the ignition. He still held the gun in his hand and he didn’t want to use it again on any of the nice people who were beginning to spill through the front door of The Mansion. He reached down under the floor mat and raked the fingers of his free hand beneath the seat. The spare keys were there. He started the ignition and got the big car moving well ahead of Jack Keith’s outraged shouts. He had just slapped a police lieutenant with a gun he had no license to carry and stolen a private detective’s car. There was no limit what a man would do to attract attention.

Simon had the advantage of surprise on his side, and he knew every road out of Marina Beach to anywhere. He avoided freeways and took the lesser-traveled routes to Beverly Hills, arriving about two hours after his collision with Franzen. Jack Keith’s apartment was located in a penthouse atop one of the newer hi-rise towers, and the steel-barred gate to the underground garage opened automatically with the aid of an electrical device Keith kept on the wide ledge of the instrument panel.

Upstairs, he found the key that opened Keith’s door and stepped into a sleek bachelor pad where the plate-glass wall directly ahead framed the glittering panorama of a city sleeping with the night lights on. Otherwise the room was dark. Silhouetted against the window was the figure of a man, hat-less, casually sweatered over slacks. Keith had doffed the raincoat and unbuckled the side arm, but he was waiting expectantly in the shadowed darkness. He faced the door as Simon closed it behind him.

“What the hell took you so long?” he asked.

“How did you get away from Franzen?” Simon countered.

“Easy. I cooperated. I told him that you had been working too hard and your doctor warned us you were verging on a nervous breakdown. Hannah played up my lead. Between us, we convinced him that the first one of us to make contact would rush you to the nearest shrinker. Franzen even loaned me a car to drive home.”

“Did you leave Hannah alone?” Simon demanded.

“She has Rover—and Chester came back as I was leaving. He played the scene cool. But you’re hot, man. The law has an all-points bulletin out for you and the press will be on it before morning. Why the strong-arm act? Franzen has nothing on you, but this tactic makes it look bad.”

Simon walked across the room and tossed the key ring to Keith. He caught it in midair. “Would you believe that’s how I want it?” he said. “Who has the notebook?”

“I brought it with me. Hannah said you were sure to come here because Leem is here.”

“Where?”

“In the bedroom sleeping like a baby who’s been bathed in rum. You seem none the worse for wear. Doesn’t it bother you that your unblemished reputation is being blasted?”

“No, but I hope it bothers Max Berlin. Think, Jack. I’m a virile, all-American-boy type who spent a night in the same hotel with a lady notorious for her horizontal brilliance. How does Berlin know we didn’t shack up? How does he know that I’m not involved so deeply I can’t stand the publicity of an in-depth murder investigation? I put myself under pressure for a reason. Now I’m a man who might be willing to make a deal.”

“For the notebook,” Keith said.

“And the white powder. A man like Berlin holds his group together with terror tactics—the Delaney story tells us that. He wouldn’t do his own killing except as a disciplinary measure. I think Rosencrantz and Guildenstern killed Eve, and I’m gambling that Berlin will trade them in return for what I took out of the airport locker.”

“Leaving your slate nice and shiny.”

“Right.”

“Is that the real bargain, Simon?”

“It’s real enough for openers. Berlin’s sure of himself—that’s why he accompanied his flunky when he claimed Kwan’s body. He knows that he didn’t kill Kwan so he’s not worried. His thugs know Sam Goddard’s death has been written off as an accident so they’re not worried about using Sam’s gun. All I have to do is catch one of them using it and get it back into the hands of the Enchanto police. That gun is the kind of evidence that can go into a courtroom. It might not be a conviction, but it’s leverage.”

“You can get yourself killed,” Keith said.

“I found that out last night at the Seville Inn,” Simon said. “How long do you think it’s safe for me to stay here?”

“Where did you leave my car?”

“In the downstairs garage.”

“That’s not so good. It will look better if the police find it at least twenty miles from here. I’ll move it. With luck you can stay here until Chester’s friend completes that analysis.”

“Where can I bed down?”

“Take two steps to your right and sit down,” Keith said. “What you will find under you is an eight-foot sofa, and it’s yours for as long as you want it. I’ll put the safety on the door when I go out, and take the telephone off the hook. Do you need a blanket?”

Simon didn’t answer. He was already asleep.

• • •

A spiral of silver sound roused Simon. A trumpet. Muted. Tender. A soul sound. He stirred and stretched catlike on the divan and then opened his eyes. It was morning and the city had disappeared from outside the plate-glass wall. Soft gray fog was shouldering the window, and Keith’s penthouse apartment might have been perched atop Mt. Everest for all the contact it appeared to have with the rest of the world. He hooked one arm over the back of the divan and pulled himself up to a sitting position. Now he could see the huge rubbed-walnut stereo cabinet on the far wall from which was emanating the trumpet concerto. Jack Keith, wearing a short terry-cloth drying robe and with shower-wet hair, stood beside the machine, arms akimbo. He grinned at Simon.

“Five hours’ sleep is enough for any grown man,” he said. “I’ve got orange juice in the refrigerator and the percolator’s plugged in. How do you like your eggs?”

“When did you get back?” Simon asked.

“A couple of hours ago. I shoved Leem over to his side of the king-size mattress and tried to sleep, but my mind’s too busy. How do you like the new record?”

The trumpet climbed up to an orgylike pitch and hung there for two full bars. Then silence. End of recording.

“The artist sounds familiar.”

“It’s Buddy Jenks. I caught the piece on the radio in a cab I took home from International.”

“International?”

“Airport. Got a brain storm after you went to sleep. I drove my car out to the airport and left it in the parking lot. Caught a cab at Western Airlines satellite and told the driver all about my fishing trip in Mexican waters. Let Franzen worry about where you went from International. I picked up the record from a disk-jockey friend on the graveyard shift. It’s a newie and the word’s gone out to give it heavy play. It seems that Whitey Sanders owns a lot of stock in a record company.”

“So Hannah’s fair-haired Buddy is to be a teen-age idol.”

“He deserves it. And you’re getting famous, too, Simon. My disk-jockey friend featured you on his five o’clock news bulletin. You’ll probably have your picture in the afternoon editions.”

“I hope it’s a flattering one,” Simon mused. “I get more interesting mail that way.” He rubbed an exploratory hand over his face. Yesterday’s five o’clock shadow line had put on another twelve hours’ growth. “Can a man get a shave around here?” he asked.

“Straight down the hall, first door to the left,” Keith said. “My electric shaver’s in the medicine chest. I’ll scramble the eggs.”

Simon returned from the bathroom after he had shaved, showered and appropriated another of Keith’s robes. He followed the scent of coffee and found a Pullman kitchen on the far side of the bar. Keith was pouring and Charley Leem, who looked as if he had slept on his face, was staring wistfully at the steaming cup before him. When Simon entered the room Leem did a double take and began to tremble.

“You said that I would be safe here,” he bawled, fixing Keith with reddened eyes.

“You’re safe,” Keith said. “You remember Simon Drake, the man you tried to take the blackmail route.”

“That’s a lie!” Leem yelled. “I just wanted to talk over a business deal.”

“What kind of business?” Simon asked.

Leem hooked a trembling finger through the handle of the mug and transferred a few quick swallows of hot coffee to his mouth. He shuddered, involuntarily, under the shock of an alien stimulant and lowered the cup.

“I had a piece of film strip that Eve took from your wallet,” he said. “Actually Eve had it. Now it’s gone.”

“Who took it?”

Leem looked coy. “Maybe you’ve got it,” he said. “I saw you drive into the parking lot next to the motel where Eve was waiting for you. I saw you walk toward the motel. I never saw you come out because I split for San Diego.”

“Why didn’t you tell that to the La Verde police?”

“Nobody’s asked me. If I’m asked, I’ll tell.”

“I think you’re being hit,” Keith remarked.

Simon sat down on a counter stool and picked up his fork. “Now, Charley Leem wouldn’t do that. Not
the
Charley Leem, incorruptible newspaperman.”

“Nobody’s incorruptible,” Leem said. “If temptation doesn’t get you, time will. I’ve been had by both. I’ll level with you, Drake. I set Eve up in that motel and told her to use the film strip to lure you down there, but we weren’t planning blackmail. We wanted the advice of a good lawyer.”

“I have an office,” Simon said.

“But we didn’t have money. We had to hook your interest some other way.”

Leem’s eyes were getting accustomed to daylight. His glance flicked hungrily about the apartment, feasting on the deep shag carpet, the designer furniture and the custom-built stereo. Recalling Hannah’s description of Leem in his prime, Simon sensed nostalgia. It was time to make a move. “How much do you expect to get for the tape you have on Kwan’s murder?” he asked.

Leem looked up, startled. “What tape? What are you talking about?”

The best way to convince a man as frightened as Charley Leem was to create a more immediate fear. Simon stepped closer to Leem and grabbed him by the collar. Underneath the bravado he was a bony frame of a man who had enjoyed too many good times too soon. He was wasted in both body and mind, and only the stark instinct for survival was left burning in his eyes.

Simon continued to improvise on Keith’s hunch. “I don’t know what device you used to bug Kwan’s room at the Balboa, but I do know that you weren’t expecting a murder and I doubt that you got the bug out after Kwan’s body was found. You had Eve stay on in the hotel so you would have a chance to get back inside the room, but the device was gone. If the police took it you would have heard from them. You didn’t. That means that Berlin got somebody into the room and found it was under surveillance. The same information Keith dug up on Eve Necchi was available to anyone else, and the trail leads to you, Leem. That’s why you’re scared. Somebody got to Eve while you were waiting for me and you’re afraid that you’re next on the list. Now, if you still want my legal advice I’ll give it without fee. You can give me the tape and help me bring Sam Goddard’s killers to justice. Afterward you can syndicate the story and make any deal you like. That’s your business.”

Leem’s reaction was faster now. “Was Sam murdered, too?” he gasped.

“You know damned well he was! His gun is missing and I was almost shot with it two nights ago. I’ve got the shell casing to prove it.”

Simon loosened his hold on Leem’s collar and let him sink back in his chair. He was thoroughly shaken. He drew back like a man who has been beaten and fears another blow. He looked at Keith, lips trembling. “I wore a topcoat when you brought me here yesterday,” he said weakly. “Where is it?”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Keith said.

“I know. But get the coat, anyway. It’s an all-weather with a zip-out lining. The tape’s in a box fastened to the lining under the right arm. You can play it on your fancy machine.”

The words exhausted Leem. He sat motionless while Keith got the tape, and then the three of them sat in silence while it played out the action Eve Necchi had missed while making friends at the Balboa bar. The death of N. B. Kwan had a playing time of slightly over three minutes. It began with a knock at the door. The door opened.

MONTEREY:
Dr. Kwan?

KWAN:
Yes?

MONTEREY:
My name is Monterey. I’ve come for the shipment.

KWAN:
Oh, sure. I recognize you. Come in and close the door. I’ve got the stuff in my brief case.

MONTEREY:
It’s lighter than usual.

KWAN:
But it’s more valuable than usual. Where’s my money?

MONTEREY:
In your safety-deposit box at the bank in La Jolla as usual. Is this all of it?

KWAN:
No. Take this notebook and keep it close to you. It’s more valuable than the package.

MONTEREY:
I know. I met with Max Berlin and Di Miro in Mexico a few weeks ago and they clued me in on the deal. Van Brut was there. He got a face job. So did Di Miro. They’re heading south.

KWAN:
I’m not surprised. Di Miro’s hot. Severing’s under fire too but his slate cleans easier. Robles will take care of him. How much did Berlin put in my box?

MONTEREY:
One hundred thousand dollars.

KWAN:
It should have been double. This stuff will make Maxie millions. But I’m not greedy. I’m young. I like living.

MONTEREY:
(
softly
): So did Joe.

KWAN:
Who?

MONTEREY:
Somebody you never knew. A young man. A G.I.

KWAN:
What’s eating you? You look peculiar.

MONTEREY:
I feel fine. I’ve been waiting for tonight and thinking about Joe and all the young men in Viet Nam who might live if they had this stuff. Young men. Girls, too. Girl’s like Joe’s Juanita and babies like the babies they never had. You’re rotten, Kwan. You’re filthy rotten.

KWAN:
Don’t preach to me, Monterey. I’ve seen Berlin’s book on you. You haven’t been a man on a white horse since the cameras stopped turning. I won’t lose any sleep over those damned G.I.’s. I saw them in action when I was a kid. They make out and I intend to make out too. Let the big-eyed S.O.B.’s die!”

That was almost the last of the dialogue. The rest of the sounds were of violence and animal-like cries. Kwan screamed: “Let go, you idiot! You’ll kill me!” And then Monterey said: “That’s the way we play this scene, baby. That’s how I wrote the script.” The sounds diminished as they moved out on the balcony and then came a terrible scream that nearly burst the speaker. Footsteps ran from the room. The door slammed and a sickening wail continued in the background until Keith snapped off the machine.

“It’s evidence,” he said. “The voice prints can be matched to the sound tracks of Monterey’s old films.”